


Tomorrow

by charnelhouse



Category: Inspector Lynley - All Media Types, Inspector Lynley Mysteries (TV)
Genre: Burning, Choking, Drug Abuse, Everyone is of age, F/M, Guilt, Heavy Angst, Knifeplay, M/M, Pain Kink, Porn with Feelings, Suicidal Thoughts, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:53:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28970136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charnelhouse/pseuds/charnelhouse
Summary: There's always tomorrow for Chas.
Relationships: Chas Quilter/Reader, Henry Cavill/Reader, Henry Cavill/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [swordgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swordgirl/gifts).



The morning tastes like ash - like the thick dust from an attic floor. 

_ The boy the boy THE BOY had been found. _

_ Dead. _

Chas had been foolish - he had been scared - selfish - unable to help the kid - the poor, sad kid who had  _ begged  _ him. 

Because there are things he  _ needs _ .

_ Don’t you understand? _

He is a slave to it. He is dominated by it. 

There are parts of his brain that fiends for it - that consume him - that  _ ruins  _ him and he cannot say no. His nose aches - the whine of winter air through raw, chafed skin. He’d done too much. He gnaws on his lip - grinds his teeth down down  _ down  _ until his jaw burns - and then until he can no longer feel his jaw at all.

Chas thinks of all the things he had wanted to become. He thinks of a future with dreams laid out - corporeal and purple and endless. 

_ University. Lawyer, perhaps? Fucking anything.  _

Now - he has dirt. He has guilt.

At least... _ at the very least _ ...he has you.

* * *

He thinks of all the things you have given him - the comfort - the ease with which you have pulled him apart piece by piece and burrowed yourself into the center of his chest.

_ It’s not enough _

_ It’s not...enough _

_ It is for a little and then it is not. _

He dreams a lot. He dreams of a world in which he would have belonged - a world that he would have succeeded in because  _ didn’t he have everything?  _

He’d been born into it.

Looks.

Athleticism.

A sharp head.

All of it to waste.

* * *

No one knows about  _ you  _ \- they don’t know about what you do for him - how you destroy him because he simply cannot forgive himself. His hatred is a growing thing - black and bitter and spreading like a fungus inside him.

The first time you had suggested it - out loud - he had been taken aback - mostly because he had always figured that he was supposed to be in control - that sex was an act where he  _ gave  _ rather than  _ took _ .

You knew how fucked he was - you knew how he cried silently by himself - in the quiet space of a library alcove - far and away from the rest of the student body. In truth, there was barely a day that went by that he didn’t catch himself sobbing - stumbling upon it like he hadn’t quite realized he was doing it to begin with.

You had found him and you had wrapped your arms around his shoulders - cheek flat against his own as you smeared his tears with the hot surface of your skin. 

“Let me help you,” you sighed against his mouth. “Let me hurt you.”

He glanced at you - he paused.

“Chas...” He dug his blunt nails into the center of his palm - hard enough to break the skin and he gasped - a moment of excision. 

“Chas,” you repeated. “Let’s go to your room.”

* * *

You keep his wrists tied uncomfortably tight - his cock achingly notched against your thigh as you straddle him. He is bursting with it - and yet.... _ and yet _ ...beneath the heat of arousal there is still sadness - cold and unforgiving as it scratches at the back of his head:

_ Remember me. Remember what you did. Remember what a failure you are. _

_ You’re nothing. _

_ You’re dust.  _

_ You’re the remnants of a dream gone to shit. _

You grip his chin - pull his face back to you - thumb slipping over the pillow of his lower lip.

“Watch,” you murmur in that soft way you have - linen-wrapped steel - because there is always the promise of you striking at him.

You start slow - spilling molten wax on his chest. The candle is red - furious looking - fat in your small hands and as it splashes on his skin - he  _ sighs _ .

“Lower,” he begs -  _ where it will really hurt _ .

You smile - all teeth and he finds it menacing - menacing in a lovely way - in a way that excites him beyond all measure. 

You tip the candle and the wax hits the firm skin of his shaft - his tender balls - and  _ that  _ makes him cry out - loud enough that you have to smack your hand over his lips.

The pain is brief - a bolt of light - a rogue wave - one that crashes violently before receding to calm, cool water as if it was never there to begin with.

Tears in his eyes - prickly and wet and  _ sweet _ . He likes these tears - he likes this relief - this distraction.

“More,” he pleads. “I want more of it.”

You kiss him - hungry and slick - your tongue in his mouth as he bites at you - as he inhales you because he cannot get enough of  _ this  _ \- what you’ve shown him - how it can be after nothing but ugly memories and anxiety.

“How much more?” Your voice in his ear - the temptation of it - the arsenic at the end as he clings to the lilt in your tone. He nudges his nose to your chin - your cheek - his words gone useless.

“Okay,” you soothe. “Okay...okay I know what you need.”

More wax - more burning - searing into the flesh of his pale thigh - the sensitive head of his cock - the line of his groin. 

“Jesus fuck,” he sobs - his wrists chafing against his bonds as he nearly tears them from the posts of his tiny, single bed. 

The pain is something else and _just_ as he bucks beneath you - as his legs tremble and muscles spasm - you slide him inside you. There is _relief_ , but it is momentary because the tight clench of you around him is aggravating his cock where the flesh is still screaming red and raw.

It’s made worse as you fuck him slow and still...and  _ still _ ...

He keens like something dying - like an animal in a trap and his hips jerk up - desperately trying to get you to grind down on him  _ harder.  _

“Fuck me,” he rasps. “Please. Please. More.”

It is a comfort. 

* * *

He’s graduated to sharper things. 

You are still his anchor - his lighthouse if he were to wax poetic because you guide him through the deepest of his depressions. You guide him before he shatters himself against the black rocks - the solidified reminders of his actions (inactions) that refuse to leave his head.

_ Oh the boy...that boy. _

_ I’m sorry. I can’t help you. Just try and get through it. It surely can’t be that bad. _

You pull him free with the slip of a blade along his skin. His priest...his savior of sorts as he screams into the cup of your hot mouth - as he cries blindly and you wipe at his tears and slice  _ down _ \- create scars in places that his crisp uniform can hide.

That  _ uniform  _ and all the things it represented - the future his father wanted for him - the future  _ he  _ had once wanted for himself and now... _ now _ ...it just sickened him and he’d already be gone if it weren’t for you and what you do to him every night that you sneak into his room.

Well - not really his room - not anymore - since they have to go to other places. Places he can scream and cry and  _ beg  _ without getting caught. 

Hidden rooms within the school - an abandoned farmhouse just outside the gates.

It’s different now.

_ Every time  _ he ups the stakes - he needs  _ more  _ than just hot wax and tight rope and metal handcuffs. He liked making you angry - he liked teasing you or frightening you, which is  _ always  _ a guarantee to getting you to hurt him more.

You had glared at him the night you had found all the blow hidden in his desk drawer. The jingle of medicine bottles and pills and vials of powder (his pebble friends).

“You’re going to lose your nose,” you had sighed as you shoved him onto his creaky bed (the frame already broken after they had gone a little too far a few days before). 

“Doesn’t matter,” he had murmured as you circled your hands around his throat. “I don’t care what happens to me.”

You had squeezed as he swallowed - as he started to feel the dizzy shudder in his head. It made him  _ so  _ damn hard - uncomfortably so - and when you cut off his air completely - made him see stars - galaxies - the comforting temptation of a black hole - he came in his own trousers.

You don’t tell him that  _ you care  _ about what happens to him. You don’t needle at him or give him words of comfort - sentimental greeting card mottos that would only annoy him. 

No. You use your hands. 

* * *

He used to hate this place - the farmhouse with its cold, empty stalls and dust and hay that makes him sneeze.

But there are lots of places that he can be tied to - he can be hung from - so he follows your lead and doesn’t complain. 

Now - his arms are strung up above his head - his muscles straining - an ache in the joints of his shoulder. His shirt and coat are gone and he watches you work him by the thin, pale stream of moonlight.

It’s the blade now. The knife is one of the only things that really work on him.

It had started months after you had first spilled wax onto him - when the burn was no longer enough - it had gone muddled and subdued.

The nightmares were creeping back again - crashing into his head and disturbing his sleep with the full force of a hurricane. The guilt - insidious and absolute - was slithering inside him - grasping at his lungs and heart until he could barely breathe.

You’d caught him crying - sitting alone in a pew in the school chapel - sitting alone because he  _ felt  _ alone - he felt like he was isolated on an island that’s shore was receding by the day. 

By the minute.

_ There is no one to help him. There is no one to care. There is no one. There is no one.  _

You’d taken him by the hand - led him to a storage closet and  _ there  _ you had kissed him - hands clawed into his hair before he had felt that first  _ prick  _ \- then the  _ long, sharp sting  _ as you drew your pocket knife gently down his chest (pink-red blood blooming in a sketch-pattern below his white shirt). 

He had pulled away - looked down at you and your upturned face and your clear, fine eyes and he placed his hand over yours and pushed the blade  _ deeper _ .

* * *

He’s lost to it now. Your hand around his cock as you drag the knife over his belly - the soft, dark hair at his groin. 

“Fuck!” he gasps when you quicken your fingers - stroking him until he’s fit to burst.

The blade hurts - his skin is stretched and taut as he hangs like a piece of meat. His blood is warm - near steaming in the frigid air. It sheets down his thigh - drips on his bare feet - coats your hand and his cock and he needs  _ more  _ of you.

“Kiss me,” he whines and you rise up on your toes to meet his lips - to let your tongue slowly slide against his own as his orgasm begins to build - to rise - ready to spill over and then...

You stop. 

He cries out - the swell of him punctured by your disappearing fingers. You swipe at the tears on his cheek - the salt on his mouth. “You know it’s better when I make you wait.”

_ You’re right. You’re right. Of course - you’re right, but christ he needs it - he needs it so fucking badly _ .

These are the times that the sadness is held at bay - that the thought of what he had indirectly done stays hidden in the corners of his brain. He focuses on the aches that radiate from his slit skin - the warm, sticky essence of himself now gone to a slow dribble. Your hand on his cock and  _ oh  _ your mouth now - the wet, hot slip of it sucking and  _ sucking  _ until he’s begging you:

_ Please. Please. Please. Fuck. Don’t stop.  _

His muscles scream - the bones in his wrists shifting as he jerks at the cuffs above his head. There’s nothing but the sweet, liquid sounds of your mouth - the whistle of the wind outside - and the creak of the wooden rafter. There are also his own gasps - his voice broken down to a bone-rasp because he’s nearly yelled himself hoarse.

His climax grows in the center of his gut. It rolls and coils -  _ rises _ \- his pleasure intertwined with the stinging cuts across his chest - his abdomen - the meat of his thigh. Your tongue slips over the head of his cock - dips low - and  _ then  _ he comes with a shout - garbled and frantic from his dry throat. 

It catches him by surprise.

He fills your mouth - spurts of warm spend. It feels endless - feels like he is deflating with each little shift of his softening dick on your tongue/ You nearly swallow him down as you massage his legs - as you press your fingertips to the oozing cut on his thigh. It makes him jump - the shock of pain in the middle of his orgasm.

He wants to call you something - maybe a pet name (not like you’ve ever allowed him to).

_ No  _ \-  _ that would be the wrong move here.  _

He wants to  _ thank  _ you - but he is out of words - he is out of his head. 

He’s gone blank and  _ isn’t  _ that the point of _ this _ .

* * *

He lies in his narrow bed and stares at the ceiling. He _misses_ you.

Even though he’s just had you - even though you’ve just had him. The latest bruising along his ribs is evidence.

You’ve only gone back to sleep in your own bed - to dream away from him and his hands and his mouth. 

_ Tomorrow  _ you promised as you touched his cheek - brushed your thumb over his chin and left him alone.

Alone with his head - with his thoughts - and the shadows that march through his bedroom again and again in the thick of the night.

The pain - the sex - they’re beginning to lose their power. It terrifies him. 

What will he do when there won’t be another way for him to  _ forget? _

He thinks of the times you have strangled him - the sweet bind of your finger-noose around his throat. The comfort in losing his breath - the rapid beat of his heart echoing like a drum.

_ Should I?  _

_ Would it make it better?  _

He thinks of you - of the quiet way you draw blood from his flesh - the wrinkle in your forehead as you crack your fist across his ribs - as you soothe him with your tongue.

_ I can wait.  _

_ I can see.  _

_ He has the right rope. He has a note. There’s always tomorrow.  _


End file.
